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Sunday, September 30, 2012

September 30, 2012: Bob and I would like to express our sincere gratitude for the outpouring of support we received regarding the removal of his testicles. Things came off fine, so to speak, and he shows no linger effects, save a new tendency to blush.

It’s morning in America and I’m happy to report that things are swell. Halloween is coming and the leaves, too, are blushing, as am I. In fact, last night I indulged in yet another viewing of my all-time favorite spooky mood movie “Halloween III: Season of the Witch.” I was further thrilled to be joined by my son, Max, who commented to me so sharply during the closing credits, in heartfelt disbelief, “THAT’S your favorite horror movie?!!”

Yes, it is, my young pup, and I’ll never be able to explain it to anyone who doesn’t understand the strange, spooky subtleties of the Halloween spirit—a kind of kid-like magic that surrounds things like autumn-time hide-and-seek in the dark, diving under bushes to avoid detection when one of Conal Cochran’s evil robots drives by in a white Mazda … (After all, what does anyone under 30 understand about being a kid?!) Sure, it’s a bit over-the-top in places, but shouldn’t we give ourselves over to such experiences, like my cat did?

But I’m being vague, and that’s not why you visit this Blah-ugh! … I don’t think. Why DO you visit this Blah-ugh! anyway? I mean, what exactly is your problem? (I know what MINE is, after all, but that’s why I take the medication.)

Anyway, if for no other reason, Halloween III is worth the viewing for Tom Atkins’ terrific honest acting reactions each time he’s faced with a violence scene. As you know, Atkins plays Dr. Dan Chalice—brilliantly—subtly—and when this grisly, hulking, mustachioed actor moans and reacts, it’s so perfectly authentic. For instance, when he’s punching one of the guards and the guy doesn’t even flinch. “Oo-oh!” Atkins moans—a model of depth and truth. He should have been the hero in the Die Hard movies, and yes, my ignorant child, Dr. Chalice will remain one of my all-time favorite fictional heroes, right up there with Capt. Kirk, Mr. Thackery, Ed Wood and Andre Gregory.

Now, I intended to talk about meditation, as you garnered from the title, but we all know what good intentions are, or what good it is having them, especially when you have no intention of following them. But I did, and that’s why I’m confused, or at least I’m GETTING confusing in a tough effort to keep YOU from being confused … You see, ironically all I can think about right now is that I just realized orange juice gives me upflux, and this is ironic because meditation is all about concentration and not letting your thoughts drift to vomit or breasts—not letting vomit-covered breasts cloud your anchoring to the present moment.

So what can I really say about meditating anyway, except I’ve been practicing it. Hell, I don’t even know what meditation’s about, nor should, because if I did I’d be one of those hype frauds, like Wayne Dwyer, or Dyer, or whatever his name is. Now, in my critical estimation, there’s a nervous man. When you listen to his tapes you can just hear his teeth grinding. That’s why I’m a dedicated Deepak Chopra man and proud of it. I always feel like Deepak is embarrassed at having to be commercial, but his handlers keep encouraging it.

My newest discovery is Eggbert Tolle (Reinhart … some German name). He’s really on the money with his crap, I must say, and I’m getting a lot out of HIS book. The hardest part—and believe me, it took me a full year—was getting over the disturbing picture of him on the back, where he looks like a kind of mutated Dr. Seuss character, with that chin beard and what I find to be a suspicious and disturbing elfin expression.

Anyway, meditation is good, vomit is bad, breasts are very good, cats are good if they don’t have testicles, Halloween III is awesome and Tom Atkins is the best!

Thursday, September 13, 2012

September 13, 2012: Well, the moment's fast approaching when we'll remove my cat Bob's testicles. I, for one, am looking forward to getting it done. It's not that I wish ill of him -- in fact, he's a fetching young gentleman with a heart of gold -- but he's apparently starting this onorous (and odorous) practice of "spraying" around the house, and it stinks of weird ammonia and feh, and we've got to put a stop to it ASAP. (Lord only knows WHAT this little fiend is spraying -- I mean, it may be urine or it may be something worse!)

But I'm grateful to the authorities who will perform this necessary operation, and while I like the idea of keeping people natural -- I mean, come on! I certainly wouldn't want you removing MY testicles, at least not without a good reason -- it's good to do as Bob Barker used to always advise us at the end of "The Price Is Right" and remember spay and neuter your pet. (And while I don't intend to do BOTH, I think doing at least ONE is a good thing where Bob is concerned. And, mind you, I'm not even really sure WHICH we're doing -- I mean, I never said I was a knowledgable writer, just a witty one -- but the unceremonious plucking of his little man marbles must certainly fall into one category or another ...)

But more to our point, isn't it just too easy to make jokes about such a dire event?! It's like laughing at the death of some old movie actress who had a bookcase fall on her, or a decrepit right-wing politician, who got anal cancer ... I can do better, probably, or at least keep this dumb Blah-ugh! moving without resorting to cheap laughs ... Hmmm ... Or CAN I ?? ...

There's little other news to report. I was, once again, highly disappointed by the poor attendance at my speaking engagement last night, and while many of you were there with me in spirit, it was only because I invested mental energy fantasizing about gouging your respective eyes out with my quill pen (or unceremoniously removing your testisticles with tweezers).

On another note, I watched this weak but intriguing movie called "16 Blocks" -- at least, I THINK that's what it was called. It was a rather hokey and generally predictable cop suspense movie with Bruce Willis as a cop who, looking back over the movie, probably only had about five lines, and instead spent his performance looking all hungover and despondent. And it was really a pretty good performance, as well as one could expect him to perform. Of course, I spent an equal amount of time wondering about his hair, because I was sure he was bald already. I mean, I know he shaves his head to NOT look bald -- which is a weird, remarkable irony of modern aging man -- but suddenly he had a kind of LOT of hair, but it was not really THAT much, if you know what I mean. In other words, I kept thinking that if this was a hairpiece, it was a hairpiece aimed at making him look like he was losing his hair ... and it may have been. I don't know. It was certainly dyed -- that kind of rusty red-brown colored that men will dye their hair in the movies, or the hairdresser will dye ... All I know is Demi Moore certainly made a fool of herself going after that young idiot, whose name escapes me, and then getting dumped. And all the surgery! Ugh! It makes me want to plotz! Willis handled it like a gentleman, which was probably the advise of a good agent, and now he's got continuing work while she spends her time lurking in the bushes outside her ex's house and sniffing amyl nitrate and trying to keep her face from cracking with hot bee's wax treatments ...

But I'm being tangential, because I really wanted to comment on Willis's costar, who is this guy Def Moss, or Moss Def, or Deft Mos, or something quite around there, and I have no idea how anyone gets such a name. It makes me want to plotz! If my cat had that name, I'd have removed his testicles long ago ...

Anyway, despite his odd name, this person had the most remarkably funny cute weird voice. I mean, it was intriguing. I've never heard such a voice, and he talked and talked all through the movie, and I found myself holding my breath trying to figure out where he got such a strange voice. I guess even Willis was mesmerized, because he wasn't saying anything either ...

Anyway, I recommend the movie if you have nothing better to do and it's free to rent from the library and you don't particularly care for Demi Moore and don't want to make your testicles hurt more than they already do.

Which makes me wonder if there's a movie out there that centers on the removal of a cat's personal parts. If not, I could see an intriguing storyline to develop involving doctors and Bob Barker and money and sex and fame, and you could get this guy Deaf Moseley to play the voice of the cat ... Shee-it!

Sunday, September 9, 2012

September 9, 2012: I'm not sure who Michael Enders is, exactly -- and I certainly hope we're not old friends or something -- but he really just made my evening complete. You see, because I DON'T know who he is, and yet he was scrumptious enough to actually respond to my stupid Blah-ugh!, I am just overjoyed and am now motivating myself to write another one of these stupid entries ...

Thank you, Michael Enders -- or CURSE you, as I'm sure some readers are thinking -- those of you who keep waiting for me to die, keep hoping this will be the LAST entry and that you can chuckle your disconcerting snortle and say, "See! I knew he'd eventually die an evil death owing to his overt anti-everything-ism ... Dirty bastard!"

Anyway, enough about Michael Enders. I don't know who the hell he is or what he wants from me, except he seemed to have some interesting insights, or he made a good joke or something. I don't even remember now. I just want you all to love him as much as I do at this moment, or did in the last moment ...

Okay, so, the next issue is WHY I got hit in the eye so much today. It's very odd. My left eye in particular. The first time was at my daughter's softball practice this afternoon, and let me tell you this big gold-yellow ball skipped right off the homeplate and shot right into my left prescription sunglass. "Ouch!" I said, and then proceeded to vehemently posture this way and that to make it clear I was hurt. (No one seemed that concerned, so I just stopped.)

Then, as if this wasn't enough abuse, I got a splash of this new clumping cat litter in that very same eye later this night. I mean, the coincidence was maddening. And imagine my shocked disappointed pissed-offedness when, after FINALLY buying the "clumping" kind of litter instead of the cheapest generic clay brand, which quickly turns into ammonia and very well may have burned my lungs out from cleaning it -- and god knows what it's doing to those stupid cats -- I finally, FINALLY get this expensive box of clumping crap ... And here I am opening -- struggling to open -- this stupid fancy-schmancy designer box, having to push in this stupid fancy-schmancy opening, when POP!!! A veritable hailstorm of tiny rocks shoots out of that opening like so many asteroids bound for a doomed and endangered planet -- earth possibly, or Krypton.

I worry about my eyes, now and again anyway. I like my eyes, even though I have froglike lids and my eyebrows have been deforming in later life ...

The point is, I WILL be appearing at the New Haven Public Library on Thursday, I think at 6pm, to talk about SPACE CASE and e-publishing and e-publishing SPACE CASE, and why it has so many typos, and why my eyebrows look so funny these days ...

The irony is that I think it's actually called the New Haven "Free" Library, and yet you're going to be charged an admission price if you come. Come if you can, but be ready to pay, and perhaps more than with your life, which I won't refund, no matter how much you try to sweet talk me ...

Stick with me, folks! I'll have you regretting your Internet connection in no time ...